Death by Stilettos
by Kari and KyonKyon
Summary: *SD-1 June Challenge Response* Sark wears stilettos on a mission to China and everything goes downhill from there.


Death by Stilettos:

Martial Law with a Dash of Marital Mayhem

As I stared blankly at the endless expanse of white before me, I thought of stilettos. Somehow, I always knew they would be my downfall . . . I had just fervently hoped I would get shot before then. That way, I could die with a sense of dignity . . . or at least recklessly and pointlessly. Really, they were about the same in my book.

At any rate, my demise began the day I gained a sense of humor. Being forced to improvise for myself since Marshall left, I donned, for my meeting with Sloane, a pair of stylish black stilettos in which I had hidden two stilettos. Personally, I thought they were ingenious. Just snap off the heels and you've got two very precise knives to negotiate with. Not as good as a gun, by any means, but far easier to sneak in undetected. 

Sloane, however, failed to be impressed by my efforts, and pointedly ignored them during my debriefing.

"Sark, I am entrusting you with a dangerous mission."

No, really, sir. I thought the last three search-and-destroy missions were cheerful waltzes through the park.

"I need you to meet with a client of mine—"

As opposed to what? Kidnapping a random civilian and taking them hostage on a vacation to the Bahamas?

"—in China."

Woo . . . China. Going for the exotic hideouts now, eh, Sloanie boy?

"You'll need to locate this restaurant."

Not a problem, considering I don't know a word of Mandarin. 

"My client will give you further instructions there."

So let me see if I have this all down straight in my head. I, Sark, have been specifically chosen to go on this high-clearance, life-threatening mission of peril and doom, but I'm not even entitled to know what it's about? Gee, don't I feel special.

"Remember. We're counting on you."

So no pressure. Who is this "we," anyway? I know there's something going on between you and Irina, but isn't this a bit presumptuous? I mean, you and Jack _are_ best friends after all. Then again, you've already corrupted his daughter so really why not try for his wife, too?

No, wait. Sydney Bristow isn't corrupted. She's perfection incarnate . . . sigh . . .

He's looking at me very strangely now. Whoops. Must have sighed out loud. Grr . . . lousy pleasant thoughts. Okay, must – maintain – psychotic – killer – image . . . .

"I trust there will be no need for . . . exterminations?" I ask silkily, letting my usual arrogant smirk play across my face. 

A few second's delayed reaction time and . . .

He sighs, but seems satisfied. "No, Sark. Just meet with the client," he replies, a touch of exasperation present in his tone as he shakes his head wearily.

Clearly dismissed, I nod curtly and saunter off, struggling to keep my superior smirk from spreading further upon my face. Sometimes, I even amaze myself . . .

~*~*~*~

Okay, so now after many minor difficulties – the lousy pilot could have just _told_ me he couldn't read Chinese; it's so hard to fly a plane without an instruction manual when most of the controls are covered in blood – here I am sitting in a Chinese restaurant in the middle of absolutely nowhere, as far as I can tell.

Arrgh . . . why must all of my missions eventually end up this way? Sigh . . . Oh, well. Perhaps in a few hours, Sydney will show up, convinced she's hot on my trail, and I can get her to talk our way out of this place. With the offer of information about her mother, of course. Naïve little thing . . . she always believes the best of her mother. Which, truth be told, is in her best interests. Irina hasn't done and most likely won't do anything that could count as betraying _her_, after all, but still . . . Man, do those Bristows have a messed up family life . . .

At any rate, until then, I might as well enjoy my brief "vacation." Arrgh . . . couldn't I have been stranded anywhere a _little_ more interesting? A _little_? No, stop. Remember what Oprah taught you, Sark. Think on the positive side. Just breathe deeply. Okay, now let's look around the definitely-not-annoying restaurant. Anything catch your attention? 

Okay, that chef over there is giving me the creeps. Aside from looking ancient enough to deliver a lecture on the building of the Great Wall, she's also preparing the patron's orders faster than I can blink. I wonder if she's the one I was supposed to meet . . .

Defying all rules of logic and physics, a waitress materializes suddenly at my side. From the way she's babbling on in Mandarin, it is clear that

1. She doesn't know a word of English, and

2. Has absolutely nothing to do with the top-secret mission that has landed me in the forsaken wasteland known as China.

Cutting her off abruptly with a curt wave of my hand – and resisting the urge to do considerably more for wasting my time – I point to a row of characters on my menu, hoping valiantly that whatever on earth I have just ordered will be at least cooked. She seems to get the message, because she smiles and turns to call my order to the chef.

The words haven't even left her throat, however, when one of the walls of the restaurant suddenly blasts apart. Startled, but quickly recovering and reaching stealthily for one of my shoes, I peer through the risen clouds of dust in the air to see a young Chinese girl – no, wait, _boy_ – riding a bicycle and carrying what appears to be a large wooden keg of some liquid. He glances about the room bewilderedly for a few moments before his eyes latch on the now furious waitress standing next to me.

"Xian Pu!" he cries, leaping from his bicycle and spreading his arms wide as if expecting an embrace. My apparently versatile waitress puts an all-too-rapid stop to this with a none-too-gentle foot to his face.

"Bakana Mu Tsu!" she shrieks angrily, surprising me – she knows Japanese? That certainly will make ordering things easier – before beginning to shout incoherently in Mandarin, waving her arms wildly and mindlessly destroying much of the nearby furniture in her rage.

I, for one, am resigned to merely watching in amazement, blinking rather rapidly as she thoroughly beats the boy to a pulp, using a complex set of martial art maneuvers amid his whimpering protests in Mandarin. Her remarkable agility makes me wonder: had she been trained at one of the former SD's? Could she actually be involved with my mission after all?

My wandering attention is drawn back to the bickering pair of Chinese teenagers as the now wholly battered boy holds up his wooden keg from before with a triumphant shout and no small amount of pride. Gesticulating frantically, he seems to explain something to the young waitress, whose face slowly breaks into a smile. Dropping her tray and clapping her hands excitedly, she seems ready to jump with joy beside me as the boy carefully pries the lid off the keg. Easily hoisting it onto his shoulder, he turns and strides toward the girl, who is positively beaming up at him, making as if to pour the liquid on her.

But fate must have wished dearly to punish me for daring to wear such stylish footwear as stilettos, for within two paces of the girl the poor boy tripped, losing his balance and sloshing the entire keg's contents on me instead.

Instantly, I am on the floor, writhing in agony as all my innards seem to shift within me. Dimly, above the searing pain, I can make out the waitress's shrieks of "Baka!" and the boy's stuttering pleas in reply, but they seem as if from a world away. My eyes glaze over, and the world spins in a brilliant medley of colors before me. Every muscle, every organ, every fiber of my being is screaming for the terrible torture to end.

Then, suddenly, without preamble, it does.

Gasping for air and struggling to my feet, I haphazardly stumble out of the restaurant, not even caring to look back at the cursed place. Hurriedly, I make my way down the weird village's path, barely taking notice of the villager's stares, and, nearly lost in a welcome state of delirium, wondering vaguely why my clothes seem to be much looser on me now. Had that weird water done something to enlarge them?

Panting far more heavily than is to my liking, I came to rest by a small stream well outside the village boundaries. Brushing sweaty bangs off my forehead, I splash water on my face to wash some of the grime and the aftershocks of the pain away. All in all, it has been a far too bizarre day for my tastes. Oh, what I was going to tell Sloane when I got back . . .

I freeze suddenly as I catch sight of an image in the now still water. Almost in a trance of disbelief, I slowly raise a hand to my face. The image in the water raises a hand, too. I jerk back in horror. So does the image. Breathing very shallowly now, I close my eyes, and, with a deep breath to steel myself for what I will see, I glance down at my torso.

Suddenly, it is clear why I am practically swimming in my clothes.

They hadn't gotten bigger.

I had gotten smaller . . .

Much smaller . . .

Because, currently, I am a girl.

And in that moment, when I receive my first glimpse of my new body, I do the most girlish thing I can think of.

I scream.

~*~*~*~

Okay, so after a few fun-filled hours of screaming and ripping my beautiful hair out, I am ready to evaluate this situation in a calm, rational manner like a calm, rational adult. Let's start by stating the facts of the situation.

1. I am a girl right now.

2. I am a girl right now because of that weird water that idiot boy spilled on me. 

3. I am also currently in China.

4. I wouldn't be lost in China if that pilot had just admitted right off that he couldn't read Mandarin.

5. I wouldn't even _be_ anywhere _near _China if Sloane hadn't sent me on this stupid mission in the first place.

6. I wouldn't be without a contact either if Sloane hadn't been so jealous of my stylish stilettos and refused to tell anything about this stupid mission because of them.

1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 5 + 6 = This is all Sloane's fault.

That now firmly settled in my mind, I proceed to establish my options. I can either

1. Contact Sloane using my all-purpose cell phone and chew him out from here, or

2. Catch the next flight to Los Angeles and chew him out face-to-face, preferably with a tazor.

Hmm . . . option one or option two? They both sound equally appetizing, but, then again, I always was a sucker for instant gratification. Whipping out my cell phone, I punch in my identification number and wait for the program to enable itself.

Ever reliable, the screen quickly flickers on and its feminine audio, which I have nicknamed Syd, soon addresses me in a bright, cheery voice. "Good day, Mr. Sark. How may I serve you today?"

Wasting no time on pleasantries – it's only an automated voice after all – I demand, "I must speak with Sloane."

There is a slight pause before the phone begins blaring fit to beat a fire alarm and the screen starts flashing madly. "Voice identification program detects unverified user! All systems are being shut down! Mayday! Mayday!" The screen blanks out instantly, but the sirens continue to shrilly pierce the air. Cursing and plugging my ears, I crush the cell phone under my foot, silencing the annoying thing. Grr . . . who exactly designs this shoddy equipment? Kicking the shattered remains for good measure, I sit down dispiritedly. 

Okay, so now I'm completely stranded without even a way of contacting anyone.

Smooth, Sark. Real smooth.

Arrgh . . . there just has to be some simple way out of this. Some positively ridiculously simple way . . . A thought strikes me so abruptly I slap a hand to my forehead in surprise. Examining my reflection in the water carefully, I realize for the first time that my new visage is actually rather cute, and my figure allows my stilettos to nicely compliment my feet. Hmm . . . This new body might actually be of some use after all, but . . . 

Suddenly noticing an abnormal bulge in my reflection's pocket, I pull out a absurdly diminutive gun I had forgotten I had on me. A wicked grin spreads slowly across my face as I remember what my mom had always told me.

You can go a long way with looking cute.

But you can go a lot farther with looking cute and a gun. 

~*~*~*~

Hmm . . . not how sure exactly how far she meant by that maxim, but it _did_ get me back to Los Angeles, so I'm not exactly going to complain. Now . . . to find Sloane and chew him out about this whole mess. Then I can take the day off and go shopping.

Gah! No! No shopping! I am a normal, ordinary guy! Guys do not go shopping!

Even ones who are girls at the moment.

Sigh . . . all this mental sparring with my new feminine inclinations is giving me a headache. I think I'll go for ice cream after this . . . 

Okay, I'm going to pretend I just didn't think that and proceed to Sloane's office.

At any rate, I'm finally walking down the steps to our "secret base of operations" – excuse me while I snicker . . . sometimes I honestly wonder about the level of intelligence in the CIA . . . then I remember I'm a psychotic killer and I'm not supposed to worry about such things . . . really, it does make things easier – perfectly ready to kill or at least maim Sloane for sending me on such a terrible mission, when I hear a nearly inaudible click.

I freeze immediately, swiftly scanning the scene. There's no source of imminent danger as far as I can tell, only the security department's facial recognition camera . . .

Facial recognition camera . . .

Oh, may death come _soon_ to infidels . . .

Having no desire to get shot at _this_ stage in game – I was going to get Sloane back for this lousy mission or die trying – I slink away in disappointment, heading back up the stairs and onto pedestrian streets. Grumbling, I tramp down the mind-numbingly boring avenue, randomly cursing Sloane, the CIA, the senior Bristows, Vaughn, half-brained technicians and engineers, China, and my wretched life at turns. 

Finally wearing myself out after venting my frustrations to numerous innocent and easily frightened bystanders, I come to a halt in front of a small, windowed building gaudily decorated in bright orange and purple. Looking up, I notice an equally flashy and tasteless sign proclaiming "Snippity-Snap! The hair salon with the trained professionals you trust and guaranteed low prices every day!"

Wow, I didn't know it was possible to be both tacky and colorblind. Still, I could use a haircut . . .

A little bell over the door rings as I enter, alerting the waiting staff to my presence. A woman hurries over to the desk immediately. Overly excited, she asks brightly, "May I help you, ma'am?"

I carefully avoid wincing at the unfamiliar form of address. Struggling to appear unflustered, I answer, "I would like to have to have my hair trimmed."

Bobbing her head in agreement at my statement of the obvious, she continues, "Do you have an appointment, ma'am?"

Managing again, with slightly more difficulty this time, not to wince, I glance around the nearly deserted hair salon. There's one person having her hair shampooed in the corner and three miscellaneous staff members alternating between helping her and drinking coffee, but, other than that, this place is a ghost town. I've seen more people in a church on the day of the Super Bowl.

Turning back to the anxiously waiting clerk, who smiles nervously at me, I deadpan, "No, I'm afraid I'm a walk-in."

Instantly her countenance turns serious and she glances nervously around the room. "I see. Follow me, ma'am," she instructs in a whisper, taking my hand and leading me to the back room.

What, do they give walk-ins the snob treatment by not letting them look out the wonderfully horrendous windows in the front of the shop? 

Or, as neatly hidden metal doors open before me and I am greeted by the sight of hundreds of men and women walking around in business suits, is this garish building a secret entrance to CIA headquarters? 

I am scarcely given time to wonder at the marvel Sloane and I never managed to uncover this when it was right under our noses – I partially retract my earlier statement about idiots directing the CIA – before I am escorted by my clerk to an unlabeled room containing a middle-aged women sitting on a couch. She looks up at us, smiles, and hurriedly scratches something down on her clipboard before standing to greet us.

"Another potential recruit?" she asks of my escort, who merely nods and exits the room. Seemingly undisturbed by this curt behavior, she merely inclines her head toward one of the room's two sofas, gesturing for me to sit down.

More than a bit confused at this point, I take a seat warily, not letting my eyes leave her.

This doesn't seem to perturb her remotely. Instead, she merely smiles and hands me a triplicate form, saying, "You'll need to fill this out first."

Giving her one last suspicious warning look, I glance down at the mysterious form she handed me and nearly fall over in shock.

It's a CIA agent application form.

"Um, are you sure this is for me?" I ask slowly, fighting the urge to laugh maniacally.

Her smile must be etched in her facial features, as it never wavers as she replies, in a slightly ridiculing tone, "That is what you are here for, correct?"

Oh, yeah, right, Sark. That was a _really_ smart question. Just arouse further suspicion while you're at it. "Oh, of c-course," I reply, giggling nervously, hating the sound of my new soprano voice in my ears. But hey – a gir-guy's gotta what a guy's gotta do. Necessity knows no laws or something like that. 

At any rate, she seems satisfied for the moment. "You might want to start filling that out then," she murmurs, gesturing at the form I'm still clutching in disbelief.

I nod and read the first question.

You are: M/F. (Circle one, please.)

Uh . . . 

"You know, most people find that to be the easiest question," jokes the woman.

Yeah, but, then again, most people don't work for Arvin Sloane, suffer gender switches on missions in China, have a psychotic killer image to maintain, wear stylish black stilettos, or are recruited by the CIA when all they actually want is a simple haircut. 

Sigh . . . why do I have to follow a lifestyle where even gender is a complicated issue?

Still . . . if I want to get Sloane back for the mission that caused all these problems, working for the CIA would most likely provide many excellent opportunities. And if I want to work for the CIA, I can't exactly be Sark for awhile.

"I expect they would," I answer, attempting valiantly to joke back while quickly circling the "F" on the sheet to cover my hesitation.

The rest of the form is relatively simple, full of many moronic questions such as "Which is your carbonated beverage of choice?" and "What kind of car do you prefer driving?" I am filled suddenly with a vague sensation they are trying to advertise something . . .

The woman barely glances at my sheet before resting it beside her on the couch. She then turns, and, fixing me with what I suppose is meant to be a penetrating glare – I wouldn't really know since I became immune to them a long time ago – gently relates, "I'm afraid now I have to ask you a few more . . . personal questions." Resting her chin on her folded hands, she shoots, "What is your motivation for joining the CIA?"

Without thinking, I reply, "Revenge on Arvin Sloane."

Whatever she was expecting from a delicate china doll like me, that certainly wasn't it. She nearly lost her seat. Straightening her already perfectly straight hair nervously, she asks, "Could you, um, clarify the situation for me?"

Oh, man, was I in a big mess now. Choosing my words as carefully as if I were stepping on eggshells, I delicately replied, "Sloane . . . took my man away from me. You see, he . . . sent him on this mission – along with me – and, well, he kind of set my man up to be . . . eliminated while he was there. For some reason, I have this sneaking suspicion Sloane has always had a sort of . . . grudge against him, and I suspect it may have had something to do with him gaining a crush on me after Emily died." 

Wow, can I spin a good technically correct though misleading story or what? Even though the whole thing with Sloane liking me creeps me out much, much more than mildly. Uggh . . . 

The woman nods sympathetically. "So after Sloane had your love eliminated, you decided to leave his employment?"

My _love_? Where'd that come from? Oh, well. They're your words, not mine! Forcing a few tears into my eyes – I've become very good at this over the years – I reply, "Yes. I knew I just couldn't work for such a horrid, corrupt, evil man any longer. I knew what we were doing wasn't always legal, but he had always seemed so sure it was right . . ." I break down into tears for extra effect.

The woman pats my shoulder kindly. "There, there. It wasn't your fault. They mislead you, didn't they? Tricked you into thinking you were working for the CIA . . ." I only sob in reply, but she seems to accept it for an emotion-choked response. "There's only two more questions I really need to ask you: by what should we call you and is there anything you deem important for us to know?"

I freeze at the two completely innocent queries, turning to face her with fear-filled eyes. Oh, stilettos, why hadn't I bothered to think of an alibi while I filled out that worthless application? (For that matter, why hadn't your name been the first question on the application? It's a really odd gig they're running here at the CIA.) "I'm – I mean – I have," I stammer helplessly, unable to control my fickle tongue, "S-s-s-saaaarr—"

"SARS? You have SARS?" the woman inquires worriedly. "How – was your mission in China then?"

Oh, praise the media for their tendency to create such wonderfully redundant acronyms. "Y-yes," I stutter, relieved. "It was in China, but I don't have SARS. It's just that my name's, um—" 

Great, Sark, land yourself right back in same boat within seconds. That's got to be a new record. Okay, think fast. She's waiting for you to finish your sentence and it will look more than a bit suspicious if you take too long.

"Sar . . . ko!" I finish frantically. The damage done, I quickly rub it in further. "Sarko, Sloane's cousin!"

The woman smiles in reply and extends her hand. "My name's Dr. Barnett. Welcome aboard, Sarko. We're glad to have you on our side."

I take the proffered appendage and shake it warmly. This, I decide fervently, is easily the finest moment of my constant acting career as a double – no, triple now – agent . . . 

Sudden sense of foreboding . . .

~*~*~*~

After two weeks of living the cushy life of a "trainee," which, to be brutally honest, bored me to no determinable end – they wouldn't even let me possess a full size gun, for Pete's sake! Arrgh . . . At least I managed to keep them from stealing my stilettos from me – I am now considered fit to be put on the main field. 

Yeesh . . . what kind of operation are they running here if they trust people from known rebel organizations of dubious legitimacy after only two weeks? A Texas prison? Grr . . . If Sloane were here, which someday, God willing, he will – preferably in shackles in the one singular cell located in our building; they really ought to construct some more – then these random new recruits would be treated with the utmost caution for at _least_ a couple months, if not years. 

Hmm . . . then again, maybe my emotional performance during my interview has something to do with this. As far as I can tell, this entire agency runs off hunches, intuition, and wild goose chases supported by evidence from obscure sources that always turn out to be accurate.

No wonder Sydney always spent most of her time simply tailing me. This place isn't an intelligence agency. It's an insane asylum . . .

Anyway, now I'm being sent on a "mission" with several other agents. From what I managed to remain attentive to during the debriefing, I have gathered that we are posing as various advertisers at a mass business convention. Apparently, the whole "convention" is actually an elaborate ploy to draw out a thief of one of the Rambaldi artifacts.

Perhaps I should add "harebrained schemes" to that list of what the CIA operates on . . .

At any rate, being cursed with the bad luck of being caught polishing my stilettos – Hey, they needed it! They were so scuffed up after all the desk kicking I'd done in the past two weeks – while the advertising assignments were being handed out, I naturally got stuck with the worst one.

So I'm standing here at this "convention," rapidly growing jealous as I watch my fellow super-spy friends act as advertisers for Coca-Cola soft drinks, Nokia cell phones, various banks, Ford Focuses, and an ice cream store, and what I am doing?

Why, I'm dressed up as Lucky the leprechaun, from the Lucky Charms cereal, handing out little lucky charm potlatches. Yippity-kai-ai-ay . . .

Groan . . . most mornings, it just ain't worth it to get out of bed.

Wait, hold that thought. One of the bank advertisers – Credit Dauphine, I think – is walking toward me, smiling, and guess who it is? Sydney!

Oh, Sydney! My buddy, my pal, my former stalker and archenemy! It's so great to see you! I didn't know you'd be working here with me! Wow, this is just, just . . . great! Here let me pick you out a _special_ Lucky Charm! Tee hee hee! It's a heart, get it? I'm giving you my heart, my heart for all eternity! Oh, Sydney, if only you knew how far I'd go to overcome any obstacles for you! Whether it be running to the ends of the earth or killing that convenient plot device, that idiot Vaughn, I'd do it! I'd—

Coming back to my senses suddenly, I blink and realize that Sydney's no longer standing in front of me. Distraught, I search the immediate vicinity. No Sydney. "She's gone," I breathe, brow furrowed deeply in confusion. In fact, there's no one standing at her bank's booth at all. That's odd . . .

Feeling something long and thin in my hand suddenly, I open it and lift my palm to my face. Examining the object, I determine it's one of her bank's free pens. I gasp. "She gave me a pen," I whisper excitedly. Then a thought strikes me and my brow furrows again. "I gave her my _heart_, she gave me a pen."

What a terrible cheapskate.

There's still something odd about the whole matter, though. Where _is_ Sydney? And just why is this pen so light? Tapping one end, I shake the pen violently, trying to figure out why the lousy thing can't seem to write on anything.

That's when a roll of paper slid out.

Snatching it quickly off the floor, I glance around the area to check to see if anyone is watching before hurriedly smoothing the paper out and reading it. Its message is rather brief.

_Meet me at the shop on the corner of Maple Street._

Oh, my dear, sweet Sydney, I've been sorely mistaken! You _do_ care! I'll fly to that corner with winged feet!

Hoisting the ridiculous costume and merchandise in a handily nearby trash can, I pocketed the note and sped out the door to my waiting true love.

~*~*~*~

Hmm . . . the only store on the corner of Maple Street is a bridal shop. I approach it cautiously. I mean, I'd love to have a nice ceremony more than anyone, Sydney, but don't you think you're rushing things a bit?

Apparently not, as she hastily opens the door, already decked out in a elaborate white gown, and pulls me in. Breathless with excitement as she leans against the door, she smiles down at me. "I knew you'd come," she whispers.

Throat thick with emotion, I only manage to choke out a insufficient, "Yes."

She seems almost ready to cry as she nods happily. "I knew you would understand. You what it's like to have your love killed because of your work."

Yes, Sydney, I do understand! Wait . . . what?

"That's why I invited you and Marshall. We need two witnesses and you two are the only ones we can trust. That's why I had him design that hollow pen."

Wait, wait. Back up. Who exactly is this "we"?

"Here. Quickly, pick out one of dresses," she instructs, pushing me towards the racks of clothing. "Don't worry about the expense. Vaughn and I want this wedding to look formal if even if the circumstances can't be."

Hmm . . . I _do_ like that blue bridesmaid gown over there—wait, did you just say you were getting married to Vaughn? What the—

"I think the blue one will match your eyes," she continues, distractedly. Pulling it off the rack, she shoves it into my chest. "Hurry and change into it, please. I'm sure how much time we have before our absence will noticed."

Numbly, I obey her, stripping off the remains of my leprechaun ensemble and donning the selected gown instead. She looks me over nervously for a few seconds, and then pats down my hair. "There. You look ravishing. Let's go."

With that, she grabs my hand and drags me into the waiting taxi outside.

~*~*~*~

The whole drive over, I cannot even think due to all of the thoughts racing through my mind. As we pull up to a sudden stop in front of the chapel, however, all of them are jolted back into their proper ranks and my brain starts functioning again. After a massive effort of about thirty seconds, one fact pierces through the jumbled mess. 

I, Sark, totally normal psychotic killer dude, am wearing a very feminine chick's bridesmaid gown.

Gah! What if Sydney sees me in this? Oh, man . . . Ah! Maybe I can convince her the periwinkle hue is very masculine, being a shade of blue and all. Yeah, yeah, that'll work.

Wait, what am I doing wearing a bridesmaid gown in the first place?

Scanning brain for memory. . .

Gah! That's right! Sydney's getting married to Vaughn! No! I must stop this unholy abomination from occurring!

Belatedly, I realize that I am currently standing but a few meters away from the disastrous couple and the legally binding ceremony is already almost over.

No, Sydney! Don't do it! You'll regret it the rest of your life!

"Wait!" I cry, desperately dashing toward her. "Sydney!"

She doesn't seem to hear me, however, and closes her eyes to kiss Vaughn.

"No!" As I lunge, the stiletto-heel one of my stilettos breaks off and I trip, accidentally knocking Sydney over. This causes her to fall to the carpeted floor with a small shriek of pain—

And me to kiss Vaughn.

Instantly, everyone with the exception of Marshall, who is just standing by with a disbelieving look on his face, starts screeching, including me. 

How can my life be so messed up I end up kissing Vaughn!

Seeing no other satisfactory way to rectify the situation, I quickly capture Sydney's chin with one hand and kiss her deeply.

Somehow, this only seems to make the situation worse, as even Marshall begins to scream – rather girlishly, I might add. 

It is often said in times of great distress, we tend to fall back on old habits. Alas, this is only partially true in the brain freeze I have upon seeing the horrified look on Sydney's face. Thus, what I do next is a mixture of both Sark and Sarko.

Giggling madly, I snap off the heel of my other stiletto, and, holding the thin blade dangerously close to Sydney's throat, I squeal, "Kiss me! I'm Irish!"

~*~*~*~ 

As the white-uniformed men, of St. Tucker's Center for the Incurably Confused of Gender Orientation, come to give me my evening medicine, I attempt to discern a moral in my existence. So far, I have discovered three:

1. State your feelings out loud as often as possible, instead of getting lost in your own twisted fantasies, to avoid unnecessary complications in your love life.

2. If you have a psychotic killer persona to maintain, don't ever wear periwinkle blue – ever – despite its obvious presence in your constant mantra of "leave them black and blue."

And, most importantly, I think,

3. Don't wear stilettos on high-clearance missions. 

--------------------A/N-----------------------

~*^_^*~: Yay! I finally did a SD-1 challenge!

/'^_^'\: *head in hands* Refresh my memory. You've seen just _how _many episodes again?

~*^_^*~: Five or so, I think. But American television's so predictable I can just fill in the blanks myself! And more originally, too! (If it's amnesia, ol' JJ is so dead!)

/'^_^'\: True, true. We'll have to use our special ice pick. Where'd the Ranma ½ crossover come from, though?

~*^_^*~: A Girl Scout SWAP convention.

/'^_^'\: Um, riiiiiiiiiiiiight.

~*^_^*~: Hey! It did! Sark was originally going to cross dress as a Girl Scout leader!

/'^_^'\: *blinks* Remind me next time not to ask.

~*^_^*~: Will do.

/'^_^'\: At any rate, we don't own Alias, Shampoo, Mousse, or any other hair care products.

~*^_^*~: We do, however, own the pair of stylish double stilettos!

/'^_^'\: So do watch out for people wearing broom bandoleers! They are armed and dangerous!

~*^_^*~: The Laws of Anime shall prevail! Sarkney rules!


End file.
